


the universe has moved for us

by triviaseesaw (ladydaredevil)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist Steve Rogers, Gen, M/M, Mechanic Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-30 22:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14506566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydaredevil/pseuds/triviaseesaw
Summary: Steve’s soulmate dreams of the desert.In which Steve and Bucky were destined to meet (with a little help from Natasha).





	the universe has moved for us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> Thanks so much for your patience, I hope you enjoy it!!

(It’s the back alley again.

He’s alone when he picks himself up from the ground, wipes the blood from his mouth. Righteous anger is coursing through his veins. His ribs are stinging, and breathing is harder than it has any right to be.

He absentmindedly reaches for the inhaler in his jacket pocket. He’s never used it. He’s used it so often it’s second nature.

He gathers up scattered sketchbooks and swears when he notices the tear in his jeans.

It’s a relief that the sketchbooks weren’t damaged. They’re a little rumpled, but they’ve had worse. He flips through them idly, stops on a portrait that seems familiar.

Of course it’s familiar, he’s the one who drew—

No, that’s not right.)

 

He wakes up. 

 

“Interesting,” someone says from behind Steve, and he startles so badly he almost drops his brush. Natasha smirks at him, blows a bubble of gum. He’ll never understand how she just – appears wherever she likes.

“Hey, Nat.”

“Another one, huh?” she says, leaning over his shoulder to get a better look at the canvas.

“Yeah,” Steve answers, eyeing the painting critically. The colours are about right, he thinks, but there’s something lacking in the movement, the emotion.

His dreams are always the same, lately: searing pain in his arm, chaos, the dust everywhere making it hard to breathe. Reds and greys and blacks, and waking up in a panic.

Painting helps him shake off the helplessness. He hopes the peace it brings him carries over to the person the dreams really belong to, whoever they are.

“I keep trying, but it still doesn’t _feel_ right. It’s all – second-hand. Faded,” he tries to explain.

“Maybe you should try talking to someone who has first-hand combat experience.”

He shakes his head.

“Soldiers have better things to do than help me paint.”

“There are plenty of veterans who might have a few things to share. You’ve thought about doing art therapy before, right?” She digs through her purse for a moment – he’s pretty sure he catches sight of a sandwich and a taser in there – and hands him a card. “You should give this place a call, they’re nice. Might get you out of the house a little.”

“What were _you_ doing at a Veterans Affairs centre?” he asks, puzzled, looking it over and pointedly ignoring that last comment.  

She shrugs.

“I’m full of surprises. Just think about it, will you? Unless you’ve changed your mind about what you’ll be doing for the fundraiser.”

Steve donates to as many charity auctions as he can afford to, especially now that he’s made a name for himself, sort of. It seems only right to do some good with his unexpected success. But there are two weeks left until the Stark Foundation Gala, and the piece he’s promised them is still a… work in progress, to say the least.

“No, no. I’ll get it right. I just – need some time.”

His agent hums in agreement.

“Well then, take your time. Just not too much of it. Oh, and speaking of time: I think I’ve got a buyer for the pieces at Erskine’s gallery.”

Steve straightens, eyes wide.

“You do?”

The Man Out of Time series means a lot to him, and he’s insisted it be sold as a set, which means it’s been hard to find a buyer.

“And here’s the best part: It’s Margaret Carter.”

He doesn't quite manage to catch his gasp.

“No _way_.”

He tries to tone down the giddiness, but he can tell by the smug look on Natasha’s face that he’s not doing it very well. He can’t help it. Peggy Carter is a _legend_. To have some of his paintings in her collection would be a dream come true. Natasha likes to tease him about having a crush on her. She may be in her nineties, but he still can’t really deny it.

“I had coffee with her niece the other day – Sharon – and she asked if I could arrange a viewing. We dated in college, have I ever told you that? Oh and I hear she’s single, these days.” 

He sighs, but his friend’s meddling isn’t enough to tamper with his good mood.

“Nat, you know I’m waiting for –”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re Steve Rogers and you hate fun.”

He shakes his head, gestures at himself self-depreciatingly.

“Who besides my soulmate would wanna date me anyway? _If_ they even want to.”

She narrows her eyes at him. This is a conversation they’ve had many times.

“Plenty of people, Steve. Which you’d know if you gave it a try. Anyway, I have to go. Places to be, and all. I just wanted to let you know I’m working on the deal.”

“Thanks Nat. I really appreciate it.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek and vanishes back the way she came from. He looks down at the card still in his hand.

He has to get this piece right. He feels it down in his bones. He owes it to his soulmate, who must be so brave, who has suffered and is suffering still, while Steve can’t do anything but paint.

He’s considered it before, giving art therapy lessons. Took a few courses for it, even, a long time ago. It hadn’t worked out then, his health too unpredictable, the hospital bills for his mom piling up.

Now— it’s worth a shot, he supposes.

 

 

It’s going to be a good day, Bucky thinks to himself as he makes his way to work. It’s cold, but not enough for his shoulder to hurt, and plenty sunny.

“Hey, man.”

Clint is rifling through a pile of spare parts when he walks into the garage. His good mood must show – maybe it’s the humming – because his boss raises an eyebrow as his dog comes up to Bucky to greet him, tail wagging.

“You get good vibes last night or something?”

It _had_ been a good dream. A drive through the countryside on a motorcycle. He hadn’t recognised the scenery, but he’d felt _free_.

Not that he’s going to tell Barton any of that.

“Mind your own business, Barton. You’re worse than my mother, I swear.”

“Just asking!”

Having said hello properly, Lucky yawns and lies back down in his basket. Bucky bends down to pet him.

It’s no secret that Bucky’s soul-bond has always been stronger than most. He gets vivid images rather than vague impressions that fade as soon as he wakes up, as most people do. He used to think it would make it easier to find whoever the dreams belong to, but he’s had no luck so far. Maybe if he hadn’t spent all that time getting shot at in the desert he would have managed to find them.

He used to be real proud of his bond, as a kid (he’d been kind of a romantic). Now he just hopes to God it’s one-sided, because nobody deserves the shit that’s been going on in his head for the last year.

He must’ve noticeably lost some of his earlier cheer, because Barton interrupts his thoughts again to offer some good news:    

“Romanov’s dropping off her car at two, by the way.”

“ _Sweet_.”

It’s Bucky’s favourite car – a real beauty, if somewhat temperamental, which is why he’s the only one allowed to mess with it. He’s pretty fond of its owner too, if he’s being honest. Maybe he’d have tried to charm her into going out with him, before, but that was then.

Before—before.

It’s not that he’s been doing terribly badly, ever since he got back. Plenty of vets have had it worse than him. He can still walk, and the experimental prosthetic he has was funded by a private company. He has a job, and a decent place to live, and he doesn’t see his family much because they always look so concerned, but he’s still in touch with the guys from the 107th and Barton is a pretty good friend. But it's still hard, some days.

The day goes by smoothly enough. The spare parts he’d been waiting for come in and he manages to finish fixing up the vintage motorcycle that’s been in the back of the shop for weeks. It reminds him of the one in his dream, a little.

The work is slow and tricky, but it takes his mind off things. He likes it, working with his hands – well, hand. His other arm is pretty state of the art, as prosthetics go, but still essentially useless when it comes to more delicate tasks. He manages, though.

By the time he’s done with the bike – a quick break and a sandwich, courtesy of Barton, later – it’s the afternoon, and his favourite customer drops by.  

Romanov only needs an oil change, which is a little disappointing because he’d love to keep his hands on that car a little longer.

She sticks around and chats with Barton as Bucky works. He listens to their conversation idly, because it’s always entertaining, and occasionally chimes in. They’ve got history, used to be coworkers. He knows they were in intelligence, but they won’t say more than that, and he knows better than to pry.  

Barton’s talking about the way his hearing aids have been acting up the next time he tunes in.

“Well, maybe you should change them,” Bucky suggests. "I think Stark’s doing hearing aids now, too, and they did a pretty good job with my arm.”

Natasha’s eyes stray to his shoulder, and she smiles when he gives her a wave.

“It’s hard to tell, with the gloves on.”

Bucky knows. It’s why he keeps the arm covered most of the time, even though he didn’t take the skin-coloured covering the technicians offered him. He strips off his glove, so she can get a better look.

“Work accident?” she asks.

“No, that happened before I was a mechanic. Barton’s not the only one who got a little banged up on duty.”

“Is that so?”

Her interest isn’t the kind he usually gets – the kids who think his robot arm is cool, the people who want to thank him for his service, the fetishists – this one is more… speculative.

The calculating look on her face has Bucky slightly alarmed, but then the topic shifts to Barton’s dog, and it looks like she forgets whatever it was she was thinking about. 

 

 

The man who greets Steve at the door is smiling. He’d been lingering in front, gathering the courage to go in. He’s still not sure how he’s supposed to go in there and act like he has anything to teach these people.

“Hi there – Steve?”

“That’s me.”

“Sam Wilson. Come on in, I’ll give you the tour, and maybe if everyone agrees you can sit in on the meeting.”

Sam’s the one who’d agreed to set this up. He’s in charge of the activities at the centre, and he sounds as friendly as he did over the phone.  

“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

 “Sometimes it’s good to talk to outsiders. What’s got you so interested in all this, anyway? Family? Friends?”

Steve shuffles a little, embarrassed.  

“My soulmate’s a soldier. Was. Maybe,” he blurts out. “As far as I can tell – from the dreams.”

Sam whistles.

“Must be a strong bond, if you can tell that much.”

Steve ducks his head, smiling. It is. The dreams have always been so bright, usually nonsensical but full of life. They’d been a blessing to the often bed-ridden and sickly child he’s been.

They’d felt like never being alone.

“It is. Even when I had nothing, I had them.”

“I’m sure they’re glad to have you in their head, if they’re having a hard time.”

Steve shakes his head. 

“Maybe, but – it doesn’t feel like enough. I just want to help people however I can. If I can do that through art, then –”

“Yeah, I get you. We’ve had some interest, for the art classes. It was really nice of you to offer.”

“It’s the least I can do, really.”

Sam’s pretty great, Steve realises almost immediately.  He’s thoughtful and doesn’t let Steve get too caught up in his own head. He knows most of the other vets by name and Steve can tell they all respect him as Sam gives him a tour, and then goes to head one of the group meetings.

The group members are friendly, even though he clearly doesn’t belong. Steve tries not to feel too inadequate.

He’d wanted to enlist, once, but –

Well, it hadn’t worked out.

So he listens as quietly as he can from a corner of the room while they tell their stories.

Sam asks if he wants to get coffee as he's getting ready to leave.

“Thanks, but you’ve spent so much time showing me around already, I’m sure you have other things to do!”

 Sam waves his protests aside.

“No, no, I actually have a… favour to ask. See, I need you to give me some art tips.”

Steve blinks, surprised. Well, that’s certainly something he can do.

“Art tips?”

“I’ve been seeing this girl and she’s _great_ , let me tell you. Things have been going well, but I really want to impress her. She’s a talent manager, represents this hotshot painter. And you know, fine arts aren’t really my forte. Music, sure, and I know about Van Gogh and Picasso, but that’s about it. And I need to sound good in front of Natasha because –“  

Things suddenly make a lot more sense.

“Natasha? Natasha Romanov?”

“You know her? Oh. Wait,” Sam says. “You’re Natasha’s Steve? Huh. I thought you’d be – I don’t know, older. Uh, no offence. She talks about you a lot.”

“She does?”

Steve’s oddly pleased by this. He’s never been entirely sure where he stands with Natasha. They work together, he trusts her with a lot of important career decisions, and he definitely considers her a friend, but he was never certain she felt the same. She’s a hard woman to read.  

He snorts.

“She’s the one who gave me your number, because I’ve been struggling with a piece and she thought it might help if I was around actual military. I didn’t know she had a special someone in mind.”

“I don’t know if I’m surprised. Natasha can be… sneaky.”

“That’s one way to put it. Alright, I’ll help you. You might want to take notes, though.”

It’s already dark when they part ways, and Steve’s chest is warm with the feeling that comes with making a new friend.

 

Bucky knows he probably shouldn’t feed the neighbourhood cats. Most of them aren’t strays, for one, and are already getting plenty to eat at home. But at some point he started, and now they won’t stop showing up on his fire escape.

They’re pretty good company, without the added responsibility of having to care for another living being.

It’s a little lonely, living on his own. He was used to having his sisters around, when he was living at home, and then there were the army barracks, which were almost as rowdy.

His cellphone rings, and he considers letting it go to voicemail. He’s reached his human interaction quota for the day.

He checks the caller ID, hoping it’s not a family member. He doesn’t quite have the energy to sound cheerful at the moment.

It’s Morita.

He’s the one who’s usually designated to check up on Bucky when he’s made himself scarce for too long. Which makes sense, since he’s the one who kept Bucky from bleeding to death. That creates some kind of a bond, he supposes.

“Hey.”

_“Hey Barnes,”_ comes the reply. _“Looks like he’s not dead,”_ he tells someone on his side of the line. _“We were wondering, since you never call or show up or anything. Anyway, are you doing anything tomorrow night? We were thinking of watching the football game at Dernier’s._ ”

“Yeah, tomorrow works. How’s everyone?”

_“Doing alright. Dum-Dum’s trying to stop smoking again, he’s been in a pissy mood all week, Gabe’s taking this new art therapy class at the VA, keeps raving about it. You know Gabe, with the poetry and shit.”_

“Yeah.”

_“Haven’t seen you there in a while. At the VA, I mean.”_

He probably should go to the VA meetings. But he spends enough time thinking about what happened already. Talking about it with other people, even people who can relate to some extent seems – counterproductive.

They keep talking for a while and Bucky promises he won’t be a flake and actually show up.

He watches some shitty crime procedural on Netflix to pass the time, eats instant ramen because he really has to go grocery shopping sooner than later. He finishes the three apples he has left. He figures it might keep him from dying of scurvy.  

He goes to bed early, tosses and turns for a few hours, and hopes that this is one of the nights where the dreams aren’t his.

 

Steve hadn’t known if being at the VA would help his painting at all, and by the end of his first lesson he didn’t care at all anymore, but the fact is that it _does._

He can’t help wondering, sometimes, if maybe the person he’s looking for is one of his students, or another one of the people he meets in the hallways, in Sam’s group sessions.

It’s not very likely – how many centres are there in this State alone? – but not impossible.  

Getting coffee with Sam after class has turned into lunch with Sam, and sometimes dinner or hanging out. It feels like they’ve known each other for much longer than a couple of weeks, and Steve would think they were soulmates, maybe – platonic, because, well, there’s Natasha – but it doesn’t fit.

In any case, Sam’s fast becoming an art expert.

“At this rate you’ll end up knowing everything I know,” Steve complains in between bites of pizza.

“And I didn’t even have to spend tens of thousands on tuition. Watch out man, my stick figures are looking great lately. My nephew even said I don’t suck so much at colouring anymore.”

Steve laughs.

“Well, if your nephew said it, must be true.”

“He’s seven, he knows everything.”

With the fundraiser looming, Steve’s been sticking to his studio. The piece for the auction is almost done, but he’s been distracted, sketching portraits of his students instead. And now he's running out of time. Sam’s been a good enough friend to bring pizza and beer over, so he doesn’t starve in the meantime. Steve’s pretty sure Natasha sent him, since she has a vested interest in his survival.

“You think it might help you find them?” Sam asks. He’s been looking at the canvas for a while, thoughtful.

“What?”

“The painting. You think they might see it?”

He hadn’t really thought of it that way. There are going to be vets at the gala, and depending on where it gets exposed it might be seen by a lot of people.

“It’s unlikely, right?”

“You know, with how specific your dreams are, I’m surprised you haven’t tried one of those soulmates-finding websites. It should be fairly easy to narrow it down, if they were in the same database.”

Steve frowns. 

“I’m a little too old-fashioned for that. Have you ever tried one? You haven’t talked about your dreams before. Unless Nat’s –”

Sam’s smile is a little wistful.

“No, no. She’s not my soulmate. He, uh. He’s dead, so. I don’t have dreams anymore. Not even my own.”

Steve flinches. He knows it happens, of course, but even though they haven’t been happy in a long time, he can’t imagine the dreams stopping. He’d take the nightmares over nothing at all any day.

“I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have pried.”

“It’s fine, you couldn’t have known. His name was Riley. He was my wingman, but we were childhood friends before that. We had years together, so. I’m luckier than some. But once he was gone it was harder to stay away from home.”

“Yeah.”

“I hope you find yours, man. There’s nothing else like it. Though maybe don’t tell Nat I said that.”

“Promise. Maybe I’ll try one of those databases. Just when I’m not so close to missing my deadline.”

 “If what Natasha says when she’s threatening you over the phone is true, you’re _always_ close to missing your deadlines.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

After their break Sam puts on some music and reads in a corner while Steve gets back to work. Later on Natasha joins them and alternates between typing on her phone and staring at the back of Steve’s head, as if it’ll make him finish any faster.

“I… think I’m done,” Steve says, a little past midnight. Natasha sits up from where she was dozing against Sam’s shoulder, but he keeps on snoring lightly.

She stands next to Steve, considering, and after a moment a smile unfurls.

“About time.”

 

 

The music’s pretty loud in the garage, which might explain why Bucky doesn’t hear her come in. Either way, Natasha’s appearance startles the hell out of him, which isn’t something he handles very well, these days. He takes a moment to compose himself, and she looks genuinely apologetic, gives him some space. Clint’s out, and she hasn’t called to schedule anything, so he’s not sure that she’s doing there. He turns off the music.

“Hey, Romanov. Something wrong with your car? It looked good last time I saw it, and that was barely a month ago.”

“The car’s doing great. I’m here to ask for a… personal favour, actually.”

He blinks, surprised.

“… Okay, what kind of favour?”

They get along pretty well, but they barely know each other. She’s a client, and a friend of a friend, but they’ve never even seen each other outside of the garage.

“I need a plus one to the Stark Foundation gala,” she says.

If it were anyone else he’d think they were asking him out, but this doesn’t quite sound like a date. The tone is far too businesslike.

“I was surprised to learn you weren’t going already, given the arm and everything. You have one of their more successful prototypes.”

“They sent an invite. I told them I wasn’t available.”

“I’m sure you could be, given the right incentive.”

He snorts.

“What, you’re going to bribe me?”

“I’ll let you drive my car.”

“Are you just looking for a designated driver? Because there’s no way I’m going if I can’t even drink.”

“You can drive on the way there. And you can borrow it on an occasion of your choosing, as long as I don’t need it.”

“Three times.”

“Three times, but you have to shave.”

“Tempting. I don’t have anything to wear somewhere that fancy though.”

“I’ll take care of it. Deal?”

He raises his eyebrows, because whatever she needs him for, it must be pretty important, for her to agree to those terms.

“Deal. But I don’t get it. Why me? Why not just ask Barton?”

“I’ve tried bringing Clint to a black-tie event before. Didn’t work out so well. Besides, Kate has an archery tournament this weekend, he’s going with her.”

“Ah.” Bucky’s not entirely sure what Clint’s relationship with little Kate Bishop is, exactly. They’re not related as far as he can tell, and Clint doesn’t seem to know her parents very well. She'd apparently just spotted him at the archery range one day and declared that he was going to be her mentor from then on. That’s the story according to Clint, anyway.

“I thought you said you were seeing someone?"

She gives him a blank look.

“Have you been gossiping about me?”

“It’s not my fault I’m stuck in here with Barton all day,” he answers, a little sheepish.

“That’s true. Well, I have to go. I still have things to take care of, though at least this is settled. I’ll pick you up at your place at six, and then we can find you clothes that fit before the gala. More last minute than I’d like, but I’ve done more with less.”

“You know my address?” he asks, bewildered.

“You’re funny, Barnes.”

She turns to leave, which is when he remembers he still has a lot of questions:

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you still haven’t told me why you can’t take your own boyfriend!” he calls after her.

She waves without bothering to look back, and keeps walking.   

 

(This is the VA.

The corridors are familiar enough, but emptier than he’s used to.

He walks by the room his class is usually held in but doesn’t stop. There’s a meeting room at the end of the hallway, a familiar face addressing the group already sitting. He’s late. He didn’t really want to come.  

The group leader is not the one he’s used to. There are a lot of new faces in the group, some more banged up than others. He lingers in the doorway, feeling uneasy.

He doesn’t belong in there.

_Whose dream is this?_ )

 

Steve wishes that donating pieces to charities didn’t mean that he has to come to these events. They’re boring, at best, and never fail to make him feel out of place. He tugs at his tie, wondering why on earth someone would _want_ to wear anything that can make breathing harder. Clearly whoever invented ties didn’t have asthma.

He came alone, because he’d thought Natasha was going to be his plus one until she told him she already had a date. Which he should’ve expected, really, though at least the thought that Sam will be there has him feeling a little less miserable about the prospect of spending the evening eating tiny canapes and dodging pretentious people.

Natasha likes to keep an eye on him at work related-events, so he doesn’t offend anyone with his – more radical opinions, which are if you ask him just common sense, or get into a fistfight with a foreign dignitary again.

In his defense, it was _one_ time, and the guy really had it coming, pushing around his date like that. But Natasha had been very unhappy about it, and had warned him to let her handle that sort of thing in the future, to avoid bad press.

He’d thought she meant calling security at first, but lately he’s been having some suspicions, what with the taser in her purse, and the few times she’s disappeared to “freshen up” and come back making icily polite conversation with some terrified-looking creep.

She’s on her own when he spots her though, in a black and red dress that’s turning heads left and right.

“There you are,” she says.

“You look nice.”

“Thanks. Let me redo your tie, it’s a mess.”

“Nat! I’m not a child.”

She ignores his protests, and he would wriggle out of her hold, but that’s a little too undignified even for him. 

“We’re here to work, Rogers. Don’t forget that. You know how important image is in these circles. I know you don’t like them, but they’re the ones buying your paintings, so behave.”

“Fine. Where’s Sam, anyway? I thought you came with him?”

“Sam? No, he couldn’t make it.”

“Oh.”

“I’m glad you two are friends, though.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They share a smile.

“So who did you come with then?”

“My mechanic.”

“Your..?”

His question trails off when she spots an influential art critic and swoops down on him like hawk on a frightened rabbit, tugging Steve along by the arm.

 

Bucky’s suit is tighter than it has any reason to be, his hair is tied and slicked back, and he’s clean shaven. It’s an uncomfortable situation, to say the least, being surrounded by strangers and feeling not quite like himself.

Natasha's wandered off somewhere, which defeats the purpose of him coming along to this event in the first place. He shouldn’t have come, he thinks, sipping a glass of something expensive. He doesn’t even like champagne.

As for the exhibit, well. He’s not sure how he feels about it.

He doesn’t know much about art, and these pieces feel both too close to home and distant, impersonal.

Still, if he’s going to stand awkwardly in a corner, he might as well pretend to know what he’s doing there.

When he sees _it_ , it's like a punch to the gut.

The canvas is massive, and it’s mostly abstract, but it still feels more realistic than the series of photographs he’s just passed by. It feels like war. Not just war, but _his_ war. There’s the shape of a man bleeding out, there in the sand and the shrapnel. Missing an arm.

He doesn't know how long he's been staring when Natasha comes back.

"There you are! Come on, I'll introduce you to--"

She pauses, makes a surprised "huh".

"You like this one," she says, and it isn’t a question.

"I... don't know if like is the right word."

Unexpectedly, she smiles.

"Steve Rogers," she says to the man standing next to her. Bucky hadn't even noticed him. "Meet James Barnes."

"Bucky," he corrects automatically. He must've been really out of it, not to see him. He's short, and somewhat frail-looking, but there's something striking about his eyes, about the way he holds himself. Handsome, he thinks absentmindedly.

"Bucky," Steve repeats, and his eyes shift to Bucky's arm, which is weird. He's wearing a suit jacket and gloves, so the prosthetic shouldn't be immediately noticeable.

There's something going on here, and presumably Natasha is behind it, but damned if he knows what it is.

"Um, this is my painting," he says.

"You're a soldier?"

He has to be, right? To know what it’s like.

Steve shakes his head.

"No. No, but..." He straightens, looks Bucky in the eye for what might be the first time. "I have the dreams of one."

It could be a coincidence. Someone else who has had similar experiences. Bucky's hardly the only vet to have left a few body parts in a desert.

Bucky looks around, seeking confirmation from Natasha, but she's disappeared again while he was busy staring.

And Bucky realises that, he may never have thought if it that way, exactly, but... he has the dreams of an artist. Of a passionate troublemaker who loses fights in alleys and picks himself back up even though it’s hard to breathe.

He’s not sure how long he stands there silently, and he can tell from the cautious look in Steve’s eyes that he must be coming to the same realisation.

Eventually, Bucky finds his voice, says the only thing that comes to mind.

"I dream of a woman named Sarah, sometimes."

Steve smiles.

"My mother."

“She seems kind.”

“She was.”

They find their way to the bar, order fancy microbrew beers that turn lukewarm as they struggle to start a conversation.

Because this is the kind of thing that only happens in movies. In romcoms, at that. Or to much luckier people.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

Bucky raises his eyebrows, startled by the sudden forwardness, and Steve turns red.

"Oh, um, no, that's not -- I meant, if you wanted to go eat somewhere. There's a 24 hour diner a few blocks away. I was too nervous to eat during the cocktail and now I'm kind of starving."

"Do they have pancakes?"

"I think so."

"Then I'm sold."

Bonding over how uncomfortable the gala’s stuffy atmosphere makes them is as good a start as any, Bucky thinks as he follows him out. The night air is cool, and he instantly feels better.  He hears Steve heave a relieved sigh, and laughs.

They’ll get along just fine.

 

They look strikingly out of place in their tailored suits, at the diner mostly populated by giggly teenagers sharing milkshakes and various kinds of insomniacs. Steve still feels better there than he did at the gala.

The waitress seems curious, but leaves them be once she's taken their orders: a massive stack of pancakes and a burger.

Once she’s gone he misses the distraction, because the silence is creeping up again. He'd thought of this moment a million times, but it had always seemed so distant, so far away.

Like winning the lottery, or retirement.

Steve wishes he were better at small talk. Making conversation with the person who's meant to be the other half of his soul is... Strange, to say the least. Unexpectedly awkward.

When he'd thought about it, the moment had always been perfect, like something clicking into place. But of course it's not easy.

"So, um. What do you do? Since you're not a soldier anymore – well if. You're not. I shouldn't assume, it's just felt, uh, different lately and – I'll shut up now."

Bucky looks kind of amused.

"I'm a mechanic."

"Oh. Right. Right, Nat did mention that."

Maybe Bucky's disappointed to have an artsy shrimp for a soulmate. Maybe he doesn't care much about the bond - some people don't, it's common enough - or maybe he's seeing someone, or not looking for a relationship. Though Steve would wait, of course, or settle for a friendship. Which wouldn't be settling at all --

He pushes the thoughts aside, refocuses on the man in front of him.

He has to give it a try, however it turns out. He may be a lot of things, but he's never been a coward. He can talk to a distractingly good-looking man, even one who seems to have some trouble meeting Steve's eyes.

The rest he'll worry about later. He clears his throat, tries again.

"I've met a lot of vets lately, we might have some friends in common."

"Because of the gala?"

"Ah, no. Well, yes, but mostly I've been going to a VA."

"At the VA? Have you... Do you have to... Because of the...of me?" He looks down at his arm, frowning.

"No! no, I'm fine. I um, teach art therapy there. And it helped a lot, with the painting."

That gets Bucky’s attention, because his eyebrows shoot up.

"Huh. Do you happen to know a Gabe Jones?"

"Oh, yes! Yes I do. He's a good guy."

"Yeah. He’s a friend of mine. We were in the same unit."

Steve nods, and they lapse into silence again, until Bucky sighs.

"I’m sorry, I used to be a lot better at this."

"At meeting people?"

"At... people in general."

He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up, and then groans and attempts the flatten it back into place. It looks a little ridiculous, but mostly looks adorable, Steve thinks.

"That's okay, I don't have a lot of... dating experience. Um. Not that this is – I don't mean to assume –"

He trails off, flustered, but Bucky is smiling again. If nothing else, his habit of putting his foot in his mouth seems to be entertaining him. That makes one thing Steve has that going for him.

"It's a fair assumption. But...you don't?"

"What?"

"Have dating experience?"

"Well. No. I was... waiting. For the right person."

Bucky blinks at that, looking down at himself, flexing his prosthetic arm almost absentmindedly.

"And you think that's me?"

“I think that…some things are just meant to be. When I was growing up my mother would always tell me stories about soulmate bonds. I’ve always believed that I’d find mine, one day. It’s fine if you don’t want to be with me, of course, but I’d – like to try. If that’s okay with you.” He frowns. “I know I’m not exactly a catch…”

“What?”

“Well, you know.” He gestures at himself, not sure how to explain. It seems pretty obvious to him.

From the way Bucky’s staring in confusion, it isn’t.

“I’m – skinny?” Steve tries. “Among other things.”

Bucky stares some more, and then shakes his head.

“Okay… I mean, I’m the one who’s been causing you to have nightmares for months, so if there's an issue here, it's probably on my end. I have a lot of bad days, and it probably won't get better anytime soon.”

Steve crosses his arms, frowning.  

“I don’t mind any of that. It’s not your fault.”

“Well then. I don’t mind that you’re _skinny_.”

He still doesn’t sound like he understands what the problem is.

“My health is… tricky.” Steve tries to explain. “ And… I’m. Um, I’m told I can be...difficult. By Natasha, mostly,” he adds, a little sheepish.

Bucky looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“I think I can live with that. But… difficult? Care to elaborate?”

So Steve tells him about that time he flunked a class in college because he refused to use any of the outdated and discriminatory sources the professor had insisted on. 

Which reminds Bucky of the time he realised his youngest sister was being bullied in elementary school, and of how he’d dragged the kid home by the ear to explain to his mother what it was exactly he’d been doing.

After that the conversation flows naturally, childhood adventures and family stories and questionable teenage fashion choices.

When the waitress brings their meals they both startle a little but aren’t otherwise disrupted, keep sharing anecdotes in between fries and pieces of fruit and syrup-soaked pancakes.

Steve’s stomach hurts from laughing by the time they’re done.

When they exchange numbers and part for the night, Steve walks the whole way home even though he’s bone-tired and falls asleep still smiling.  

 

Bucky would say he’s been happier since he met Steve since – well, yeah. It’s only been a few days, but they’ve both committed to getting to know each other better.

He just hadn’t thought it was written all over his face.

Apparently it is though, because Dugan takes one look at Bucky, who’s decided to show up to poker night for once, and his eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

"Well well, looks like someone met their match."

The table falls quiet as all their friends abandon their cards to stare at Bucky.

"Wh-How did you know?"

"There's nothing quite like that dazed look people get the first few days."

"Well, it's either that or he got spectacularly laid."

"Or both," Dernier suggests.

"Or both!" Morita echoes.

"I hate you guys."

"Love you too, Barnes."

"So what are they like?"

"Buncha gossips, all of you."

He sighs heavily, but can't help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Some of you know him, actually."

That earns him a chorus of questions.

"It's Steve Rogers, who give the art classes at the VA?"

"Of course it is," Gabe says. "Of course it is."

Bucky's not too sure what that means, but he endures the friendly teasing with a smile and asks to be dealt in.

He gets back at them soon enough anyway, winning hand after hand. There are groans every time he shows his hand, and the others can say he’s cheating all they want, but they can’t prove any of it.

Later that night he texts Steve to ask if he wants company, the next time he teaches a class.

 

(The diner’s empty, in his dream.

He can hear bustling in the kitchen, and indistinct voices on the radio, but it feels a little lonely, all the same.

The bell above the door chimes, and he doesn’t have to turn to know it’s Bucky who's just walked in.)

 

Steve calls him in the morning, just to say hello. Except the call turns into getting coffee – and Steve learns that caffeine doesn’t agree with Bucky most of the time, but that he’ll still drink decaf out of habit, even though he doesn’t particularly enjoy the taste.

Steve’s allergic to a lot of things, so he’s used to going without stuff most people consider essential, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to make it without coffee. Bucky laughs at him when he says that, and when he wrinkles his nose at the overly-sweet abomination Bucky’s ordered. 

Steve drinks his coffee black.

“Like a real man,” Bucky teases.

They spend the rest of day at the garage, where Steve sketches Lucky and the vintage motorcycle in the back and Bucky’s hands as he works.

It’s quiet, but peaceful.

They meet with Sam and Natasha for dinner, and the gloating looks Natasha keeps giving them are only a little embarrassing.

Sam and Bucky strike up a friendly rivalry almost on sight. Later, neither of them quite remembers what sparked it, but Steve’s pretty sure it has to do with Natasha’s car, and the fact that Sam isn’t allowed to drive it.

 

Soulmates or not, establishing a relationship is slow-going. They may _know_ things about each other, but people are a lot more than what they dream about.

And so there are some bumps along the road:

Steve catches the flu a few weeks in and is impossible about it, insisting he's fine, just fine, just has a cold until he collapses one day, his thin chest rattling. For a few hours Bucky is genuinely concerned he'll die and in the end Natasha has to sit on him to get him to stay in bed while Sam scolds him and makes chicken soup. Bucky's glad that Steve has friends like these, who can help out with the regular domestic stuff that he can't quite remember how to do, sometimes. He does the laundry, and holds Steve's hand and buys extra-fancy tissues with lotion, and somehow it's enough.

Bucky has days where he doesn't want to talk to or see anyone, Steve included, and he knows it's hard for Steve not to see it as rejection, even though he understands on some level that the way Bucky is sometimes irritable or impossibly tired is just the way things are. That he can't fix it, even with their connection, no matter what the movies say. Bucky tries not to feel too guilty about that.

But there are also the mornings when Steve brings him his favourite overpriced latte at the garage after he's had a rough night, the way he'll sit and sketch quietly, out of the way, when Bucky doesn't want to talk but still feels like having company, or the way he talks about his art and the causes he's passionate about. The way his presence fills a room  and how he'll stands up for anyone who might need a hand. The way he fits in with Bucky's squad, for all that he's a civilian (and thank God for that).

The way he gets stars in his eyes when he meets the infamous Peggy Carter roughly a month after the gala, and the way he fumbles with his words when he explains who Bucky is, looking bashful and a little disbelieving, still.

It takes them a while to get around to the kissing part, between Steve's self-esteem and Bucky's moods, but when they do, after the opening at the Carter gallery, snow falling softly around them, it's--

"Like a dream," Bucky says, running his tongue over his lower lip. Steve snorts, smacks him on the shoulder, and pulls him back down for another kiss.


End file.
